Return to Honor (4 page)

Not that she had any confidence that she was.

“How’s the hand?” Olem asked.

Vlora lifted the handkerchief. “Superficial cut. Lots of blood at first, but it won’t slow me down.”

“Have a surgeon take a look at it, make sure it doesn’t need stitches.”

“It won’t.”

“Better safe,” Olem countered.

They fell into a comfortable silence for the next twenty minutes. Olem watched the street, and she watched him chain-smoke through several cigarettes.

“It would be awfully lucky if he decided to come back,” Olem said, breaking the silence.

“And stupid,” Vlora said. “He’s not that dumb, and I’m not that lucky.”

“He a good fighter?” Olem asked.

“Damn good with a sword. Didn’t have an ounce of powder on him, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Maybe lead with a bullet next time.”

“I plan on it.”

“Good,” Olem said. “Wait. Karin’s looking out the window.”

Vlora sidled up to the front window of the hat shop and took a peek. “She see you?”

“I don’t think so. There she is.”

Karin emerged from her shop with a large, black bundle under one arm. She was wearing a green dress and a matching hat pulled down to hide her eyes. She stopped outside her shop just long enough to lock the front door, then looked both ways before heading down the street.

Vlora and Olem followed at a distance.

Karin hailed a hackney cab at the next corner. Vlora kept after it on foot until Olem caught up with a cab of his own, and she jumped onto the running board, head up so as not to lose Karin.

They crossed the river and wound through the dock district, taking a few erratic turns before heading north along the riverbank, up past Kresim Cathedral. They continued north to the outskirts of the city, stopping in front of a small chapel about a quarter of a mile from the river.

Karin left her cab, still clutching the bundle, and went inside the front door of the chapel.

“Think that’s the hiding spot?” Olem asked.

Vlora watched the chapel for several moments. A man in a bicorn and overcoat loitered on the street beside the door to the chapel, smoking a pipe, a wine bottle on the ground beside him. “Only one way to find out,” she said. “Roll me a cigarette. And give me your hat and coat.”

“Should I ask why?” Olem asked, already removing his coat.

“Because they’re older than mine, and bigger. Pit, give me your shirt too. Baggy is better. Driver!” she called. “Take us around the corner.”

She had the cab drop her several blocks from the chapel, well out of sight, leaving her weapons inside with Olem. She hunched her shoulders and tucked her hair up, then, armed with Olem’s hat and cigarette, headed back toward the chapel.

She approached slowly, walking without a purpose, pausing every few moments to look up at the sky and mutter angrily to herself until she came up even with the man sitting outside the chapel with his pipe and wine bottle.

“Hey, mister.” She coughed, pulling the cigarette out of her pocket. “You have a match?”

The man had watched her approach, eyes intent, but at her request he looked past her, up and down the street. He took a swig from his wine bottle. “No. Get out of here.”

“Come on,” Vlora whined. “Don’t be all high an’ mighty. Yer smokin’ a pipe. I’m not sober, but I’m not stupid either.” He didn’t respond, so she reached for the front door of the chapel. “Maybe ’em damn priests’ll have un.”

“Wait, wait.” The man sniffed once, then patted his pockets. She caught a glimpse of a brass belt buckle and a flash of purple, then the polished butt of a pistol, before he came up with a match.

“Thank ya,” Vlora said, striking it on the brick of the chapel before heading slowly on her way. She took a long drag at the cigarette, hoping the man didn’t see her shake and stumble as she held in a lung full of smoke. She blew it into the air over her head, trying to look nonchalant.

The cab picked her up three blocks later, and she discarded the cigarette before getting inside, wiping her mouth. “How the pit do you smoke those things?”

“Habit,” Olem said.

“Maybe I should ask why.”

“It relaxes me. Find anything out?”

Vlora stripped off Olem’s jacket and shirt. He had the decency to blush when she caught his eye as she buttoned up her own shirt. He turned quickly to look out the window. Vlora snorted a laugh. “The man outside is a lookout. He’s wearing a Kresim church belt buckle.”

“Our missing Prielight guards, eh?”

“That’s my guess.”

“Think Wohler will be inside?”

“Well, Karin went in there with something. That’s gotta be it. Now that we’ve spooked Wohler out of his hiding place, it seems likely he’ll come here for safety in numbers.”

“Agreed,” Olem said.

“And now he’s going to be surrounded by Kresimir knows how many of his fellow Prielights.”

“Sounds like we have a problem,” Olem said.

Vlora smiled at the way he said
we
. It felt nice to have someone on her side. Seemed like ages since that had happened. “Right,” she said. “I think our best bet is to spook him, get him to run. Flush him into the open so I can get a shot at him.”

“Even if we succeed,” Olem said, “It won’t take long for his friends to figure out there’s only two of us. We won’t be able to recover either him or the intelligence.”

Vlora sucked on her teeth, forcing herself to think. She could feel the lure of the easy way out—giving up—tugging gently but persistently at the back of her mind. She fought it down. She needed this victory for when she arrived at the front.

To the pit with the victory and Tamas’s approval. This was about catching the man who caused Sabon’s death. She would do this for the late commander and all the other men who died in the ambush.

“Would you be able to bring anyone else into this?” Vlora asked.

“How many?” Olem asked.

“As many as you can. I know what I’m asking, and if you can’t, I perfectly understand.”

Olem seemed to mull this over for a few moments. “Prielight guards are excellent fighters,” he said. “Some of the best in the Nine.”

“I know.”

“We don’t know how many are inside.”

“I know that too.”

“Nor do we know if there are any civilians inside. Spouses, mistresses, diocels, or even children.”

“We’ll have to go in through every entrance,” Vlora said. “Surprise them, keep them at bayonet’s length until we can disarm the lot. They’re not protecting anyone, just hiding out. They have no reason to die in a fight.”

Olem began to roll a new cigarette. He was quiet for a time before meeting Vlora’s eyes and giving a sigh. “Well. What the pit is the use of forming an elite fighting unit if we don’t give them some practice?”

Vlora kept watch on the chapel from a safe distance while Olem was gone. She could feel the weight of the air, see the rolling storm clouds moving in off the Adsea. The long-delayed storm would be here any minute.

Just in time to foul gunpowder and make the cobbles slippery. Perfect weather for a fight.

Olem returned two hours later, leaping from a hackney cab. Inside, Vlora counted three more faces, and two more hackney cabs had pulled to the side of the road to wait with the first one. It was beginning to get dark, and it was drizzling lightly.

“He’s in there,” she reported to Olem. “Came in about twenty minutes ago. Karin left ten minutes later, but Wohler is still around.”

“Unless he went out the back,” Olem said.

“True,” Vlora conceded. “Did you bring me a rifle?”

“I did.”

“How many men do you have?”

“Thirteen was all I could gather on short notice. I couldn’t find Verundish, but she’s supposed to be staying out of sight.” Olem snapped off a salute that was half mocking. “Orders, Captain?”

“Send four men around back to take care of the lookout they’ll have there,” Vlora said. “Tell them to do it quietly, and to be ready for anyone who makes a run for it.”

“My boys are a bit conspicuous. Either lookout is going to see us a mile away.”

“That’s what we’re for.” Vlora hitched her belt up so that the tip of her sword wasn’t visible beneath the hem of her greatcoat, then took one pistol and slid it up the sleeve of her coat, barrel first. “I want them to be in position around back in three minutes,” she said. “Tell your men to start counting.”

Olem snapped off a barrage of quiet orders to the men in one of the cabs, and it headed to the next street over, behind the chapel.

Vlora gave them a minute and a half before she took a deep breath. “Take my arm,” she said.

Olem raised an eyebrow and put his arm out for her to loop hers around. Together, they walked around the corner and headed toward the front door of the chapel.

The rain began to fall a little heavier, and Vlora drew herself closer to Olem, feeling the warmth of his body beneath his greatcoat. “Lower your head,” she said. “Pretend you’re talking to me.”

“But I am talking to you,” Olem said.

Vlora punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“If you get any of my men killed,” Olem said, “I’m going to be very cross.”

“I’ll do my best not to,” Vlora said.

The lookout had spotted them. He was watching their approach, but he hadn’t gotten up from his spot near the door.

“This is nice,” Olem said, looking up at the sky. “I mean, the weather could be better. But the company’s not so bad.”

“Contrary to popular opinion,” Vlora said.

“Quite so,” Olem replied cheerfully.

They were coming up beside the chapel and the lookout was eyeing them just a little too keenly. One hand itched toward the pistol hidden beneath his coat.

Vlora turned suddenly to Olem and got on her toes, kissing him. Olem’s eyes went wide, and when Vlora pulled away, she said, “Let’s get married!” in a loud voice.

The lookout made a sound in the back of his throat—a strangled laugh at the look on Olem’s face, perhaps—and studied his boots.

Vlora dropped the pistol she had hidden up her sleeve, catching it by the barrel. Her swing took the lookout in the side of the head before he could call out, and he slumped to one side.

Vlora wiped the blood off the butt of her pistol. Behind her, Olem rubbed his lips. “Well, that took me by surprise.”

“Him, too,” Vlora said. The two other cabs pulled up in front of the church and Adran soldiers poured out. They fixed bayonets to their rifles, trying to keep the pans dry against the rain. Vlora readied her own rifle. “Fifteen seconds!” she said above the sound of rain hitting the cobbles.

The soldiers spread out, three on each side of the front door, the rest moving along the north side of the chapel and taking up positions below the windows.

Vlora reached out with her senses, taking stock of the powder inside the chapel. There was plenty of it in there—at least a hundred charges and several powder horns. She guessed there were as many as ten Prielight guards inside. None of the powder was moving, which meant they weren’t falling into position for an ambush.

“Five, four,” Vlora counted down, tensing.

Vlora’s powder mage senses picked up a sudden shout from the other side of the chapel, and then the unmistakable sound of soldiers scrambling inside. Olem’s men had tipped off the lookout around back.

“Shit,” Vlora said. “Now!”

She slammed one shoulder into the door, only to find it barred from one side. A vision of disaster flashed through her mind—of Olem’s men around back being overwhelmed and killed, of Wohler and his compatriots fleeing, of a running chase in the street that took more lives.

Olem stepped up beside her. “One, two!”

Vlora set her feet and the two of them slammed into the door together. It burst inward, and Vlora leveled her rifle as Olem’s soldiers streamed in behind her.

She took in the building—the chapel was one large room, with pews in the middle and an altar to Kresimir at the front. The pews had been covered in blankets to form makeshift beds. Eight men and women, some of them still wearing the purple of the Prielight guard, scrambled for their weapons.

Vlora detonated the powder of the first Prielight to snatch up her pistol. The crack of the blast rang in her ears and the woman stumbled back with a scream, clutching the remains of her hand.

Glass broke as Olem’s men shattered the windows along the side of the chapel and thrust the barrels of their rifles through the openings. The blast of a rifle went off in Vlora’s ear, and a second Prielight guard stumbled and fell, sword half-drawn. Olem kept his smoking rifle raised, bayonet forward.

The rest of the Prielight guards froze in their places.

The entire entry had taken fewer than five seconds. Vlora searched the room, and panic set in. she didn’t see her target.

He had to be in here somewhere. Maybe in a cellar? Hiding behind the altar? Unless he’d gone out the back before the ambush, or managed to slip out just as they arrived.

“Where’s Wohler?” Vlora demanded.

“Right here.”

Every sense pricked as Vlora felt the tip of a blade press ever so gently against her throat. Her breathing grew shallow and she fought the urge to jerk back, not trusting her reflexes to be fast than Wohler’s. She’d seen what he could do with that sword.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Wohler had been concealed by the door as it burst open. No one had swung to cover that side of their approach. Sloppy. Wohler was still half-behind the door now, his arm extended to press the tip of his sword against her throat.

“I can kill every one of your men before you kill me,” she said.

“Detonating their powder?” Wohler asked. “Certainly. But they’re not
my
men. Just church guards.” Vlora reached out with her senses. Wohler didn’t have an ounce of powder on him.

“Sir,” one of Olem’s men outside the side windows shouted. “I have a clear shot.”

Vlora could feel the tip of the sword tighten against her throat.

“Stand down,” Olem shouted. “Damn it, I said stand down!”

“Drop your rifle, woman,” Wohler said.

Vlora lowered her rifle to the floor.

“Have your men drop their rifles,” Wohler said to Olem.